


if you can see me, then you can hold me

by spicychoicolate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Caring Sam Winchester, Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Fluff, Gen, Sick Dean Winchester, but can be seen as just brotherly bonding really, can be seen as wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 21:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11449491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicychoicolate/pseuds/spicychoicolate
Summary: Dean doesn't feel well and (he thinks) Sam couldn't care less. (a little plot twist in Season 9 Episode 13)





	if you can see me, then you can hold me

"You sure you're okay, Dean?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

No, why would he be? He would've been, and in his research he would have found one right damn thing if his head would just stop pounding. He kept mistaking the words 'summer and fun' as 'summoning to find', and 'weird cartoons' as 'weird creatures'. He was sent a couple times to some kind of hardcore hentai page that took place on a beach and disgusted _him_ of all people, which makes him have this urge to throw his laptop across the room. After 8 hours, he can't see the fun in pushing around a wrecking ball inside his skull anymore. He being the one doing that, would have cut it out million minutes ago and got his own life. It hurts when he moves. Hell, it hurts when he _blinks_. Looking up at Sam takes much effort of swallowing back the wince, especially caused by the different level of brightness the room and the monitor portrays. Now he realizes it wasn't a good idea after all to use his laptop in his state. He should've-nah. Thinking hurts.

"'Cause, I don't know, you.. This isn't about what I said the other day, is it?" Sam asks.

Is it? No. Absolutely. It's not like Dean has a heart as fragile as a china doll. It can't be the thing kept him up all night. He is researching, because that's the deal which becomes the only thin rope binding them together. Business. The family business, and nothing else. Obviously no heart-to-heart talk, not anymore. That's what Dean wanted, right? He always hated those chick-flick moments Sam always started. Confessions, apologies, secret sharing, are craps for teenage girls. He's an independent grown up man. Although it wasn't what he said when he let Gadreel enter Sam to keep him alive. He shakes his head reflectively. Ah, no, bad idea. Now he's seeing hazy black spots. Alright, he needs to get the hell out of here. He shuts his laptop and picks it up, trying to make his careful movement not to jostle his head much when he stands up as subtle as possible.

Dean walks past Sam dismissively yet slowly, clutching his laptop on one hand. "Oh, about that we're not supposed to be brothers? No, don't flatter yourself. I don't break that easy."

This is when Sam doesn't buy it and stops Dean to ask his forgiveness.

"Oh, good, because I was just being honest." Or not. Not so much. It hurts even more that Sam's expression is free like a bird from any guilt nor concern as if he was stating the truth. Dean shuts his eyes and takes a shaky breath when he manages his way to the doorframe with his back facing Sam.

"Oh, yeah. No, I got that loud and clear." A wave of dizziness passes through him, making him stumble, and Dean has to straighten himself by the wall once he's far enough from the dining room. Though he doesn't see why. It's not like Sam would walk out and check on him. It's not like he _cared._

_If it hurt, (Dean would say) it was just because his headache._

He walks into his room and sits down on his bed. He pinches the gap between his eyes, hoping the torture keeps building in his head would finally end as he lays it down on his pillow. He's not much of a blanket person, but now having something warm wrapped around him seems like a good idea. He slides his limbs into the tucked covers and pulls them closer to his body, enough to bury his mouth down underneath the soft fabric. Then he just remembers he hasn't had breakfast. Not that he wants to. He just knows he would need it, maybe he should go back and grab some, or he could get it later. The second option is liked better than the former by all his muscles, except the ones around his stomach. He considers planting his left foot on the ground just to tell himself that he has enough strength to do a quick run to the kitchen, but the thought is eventually pushed away as he drifts off to sleep.

\--

"Dean. Dean!"

He never thought about changing his name before, but listening to someone calling it out in repeat for what feels like a whole hour is apparently stressing. The combination of the letters in his name at first almost sounds like the noise of a sword slashing the air but louder and nearer to his ears. Then it turns more alike to mosquito's buzzing and soon the sound is unbearable just like a table alarm he would love to smash with his fist. When his mind finally becomes more awake and clear, he realizes that he doesn't need to shatter the noises' source since it stops by itself right after he fluttered his eyelids open.

Dean could barely see through his sleep-warm eyes. But there are only him and Sam in the bunker, and this amazingly secluded place is warded from any creatures, so the tall body before him has to be his baby brother's. Sam would protest if he heard that. The lines across his forehead would crease. And he would pout. Maybe he _is_ a baby after all. On any other occasions they would care the most about that word. But since their argument, nothing was the same anymore, wasn't it? This time he only isn't sure about the 'brother' part. Maybe Sam isn't sure about it too-Wait, what is he doing? Whatever it is, he needs to stop. His head pounds worse the harder he works his brain. _Oh,_ _brain._ He is working his brain. He is _thinking._ Thinking to.. do something. Move his hands, that seems easiest. But when someone does something, they do it, right? So he should stop thinking and start making actions, but what was it? If there are things he's ought to do, he doesn't remember any of it. Can't blame himself, though. He feels kind of high. He could barely focus on his name being called again. Right now, the noise of his blood rush is more interesting. And it comes from somewhere even closer than the air-cutting swords earlier. A steady beating sound that thumps all over his body soon comes along, and now it's like a music that can keep him grounded. 

"Hey, Dean?"

He only catches what the sentence means after four seconds. _Oh, he has to wake up_. His command has been done a little too fast just to remind him that even his reflex isn't working really well. He jolts up from his laying position in surprise. The blanket doesn't really let him sit, wrapping around him in a protective way as though not wanting him to get up. _Well, who wants to anyway._ His head feels light, too light that his eyes seem to be heavier they're gonna fall off.

"Wha'?" He rasps out. Whoa, he didn't expect his neck to turn hot. As he spoke, his breath was blown along what inside his neck. _Oh, h_ _is throat._ Now _his throat_ feels raw. And it hurts a bit.

Sam does something that looks like taunting his eyebrows. "Are you okay?"

_What is he doing here? He doesn't need to pretend to care. He can leave because that's exactly what he wants. I don't need him._

"Wha'daya doin' 'ere." Dean blurts out.

"Because, it's 2 in the afternoon and you haven't left your room at all."

"D'n need'ta pretend ya care." He caresses his palm over his too-warm-it-starts-to-itch face.

"I-What?"

"Ya'can leave." Dean lays down and shuts his eyes, feeling pissed by his blurry sight that doesn't seem to get any better.

"Uh, okay, I-"

"'Cos that's wha'chu want-"

"Dean, are you sick?"

He huffs, throwing the covers over the top of his head. "D'n need'ya. Go." He mumbles.

Not long after that, he hears a sigh. "Fine."

He would never admit that he might've wanted Sam not to give up so easily on him.

\--

When he wakes up again, it's more voluntarily so his head feels slightly better and his room is empty save for himself. He tries not to think of how he expected Sam to be here. _The more you wish for something, the further it shies away from being real._ He focuses on getting his muscles on his side to be able to grab some water. His whole body feels dehydrated, and with a small exaggarating his life would actually be holding onto having something cold pouring down his throat. He manages himself up, leaning most of his weight on the headboard. When his feet touch the ground, a shiver breaks from his body. The floor is like ice to his burning skin, both chilling and making the surface slippery beneath him. He stands carefully on his wobbly legs, resisting the want to put his blanket over him all the way to the place where he could get rid of his thirst. Instead he instictively wraps his arms around his shoulders, telling himself that it would help dragging himself out of the bed when it actually isn't much of a help. The earth is still quaking too much for his liking, and he still a couple times runs into the wall in the hallway of the bunker.

He finally arrives at the kitchen, struggling to support his own weigh. He hangs his head down, lowkey hoping when he looks up he would see Sam sitting on the chair he sat on this morning. He looks up. There's no one. _For God's sake, Dean, how many times do I have to tell you? Stop wishing for anything you want to be real._ Dean stumbles to the chair, pouring water from the jar into a glass and gulps it down. Too quickly. It feels like there was a huge stone forced into his throat. He winces as he rub on his neck, trying to soothe the pain. After it passes, he stands up while holding his head which is apparently getting the aching back. His legs feel even shakier than before as his sight turns blurry. He pants heavily, chanting _'hold on, you can't pass out here, you have to make it at least to your room'_ repeatedly just for him to hear.

As worn-out as he feels he is, he never expected to crash into another wall. He's sure he has lead himself to the right way, so there's no way it's possible. Unless it's not a wall. It takes him a couple seconds to realize that his fingers are clutching onto something and brick walls aren't made to clutch on. A piece of fabric. There are stubbles of what feels like wool strings sticking out from the rest of the soft worn-out-like cloth. Feels just like a flannel. Is that his? Why is anything using his flannel? Or maybe it ain't his. His flannels smell different. This isn't his musk he's breathing in. _Oh. It's Sam's._

He moves back reflectively, almost falling on his back if Sam didn't grab his arm fast enough. Dean groans, weakly attempting to pull away and fails.

"What are you doing up?" Sam asks, letting go of Dean after he looks capable of standing on his own then pushes through slowly to walk past him to the table, putting a shopping bag on it.

"T'drink." Dean ignores a part of him that is wanting to stay with Sam and leaves the room. Sam's still busy sorting whatever he bought to the counter. When he turns and finds no Dean, he quickly runs to the hall. Apparently, he hasn't had to. Dean is still there, swaying weakly no matter how much he wants to get away fast.

"Hey, hey, take it easy." Sam gives a strong hold around Dean's torso, balancing him with his support and at the same time preventing him from escaping again.

_What is he doing here? He doesn't need to pretend to care. He can leave because that's exactly what he wants. I don't need him._

"Go'way." Dean mumbles, yet leaning more of his weight on Sam.

Sam snorts. "Yeah, your body clearly agrees to that." Sam starts walking them to Dean's room, wrapping his arm around Dean's waist.

Dean has to squint his watery eyes to look at Sam, but he doesn't get a view of anything but blue and red checker. Since when has Sam become so tall?

"I meannit, S'mmy. Y'can leave."

Sam shakes his head, trying to stop himself from wondering if Dean really doesn't want him here.

"Why would I?"

"'Cos y'hate me."

"I-I don't hate you, Dean."

"Then y'should."

"What.. Why?"

"'Cos 'm shitty."

Dean puts his hand over his mouth as he coughs, then continues.

"'nd I let'ya down. A lot. I shoud'a been d'one dying in d'church and I would'a finished d'trials once 'nd f'r all. You wouldn't hav'ta go through any 'f this and I would'a been gone. F'r good. You would'a got rid 'f your burd'n, right?" He says raspily.

Sam is too busy processing all the heart-breaking slurs coming from his brother who's slumped against his chest to reply.

"But d'n worry, y'still haven't lost y'r chance. If ya'leave me 'ere, I'll be gone too. Go. Find a girl, S'm. Get y'r happy endin'. It ain't too late f'r that."

Sam feels his chest being nudged and looks down. It's Dean, pushing him weakly with his fist.

"'s been my job t'make sure y'have y'r dreams c'ming true, and I v'ry much failed 't that. So this's the least I c'n do. Go, S'mmy."

His nickname had never been so painful to hear. But it's coming out from the vulnerable-looking guy in his arms, the person who's most of the time a tough and brave man after what his dad had taught him and the one he's always been looking up to, and it's not everyday Sam could get him opening up and telling his feelings like now.

The fact that Dean is willing to sit here and die with no one by his side as long as Sam is happy, makes he feel as if there was a stake being put through his heart. It's the same person Sam had called selfish to save Sam's life not for Sam, but for himself. Now Sam just realized, it was because he couldn't live without Sam, literally. He's the only thing he have in this world. The only person he can trust, the only person he can lean on. It's the same for Sam, but Sam hasn't let Dean see that. He wishes he had, before he blames himself for anything that happened to Sam and feeling so bad about himself afterwards. Selling his soul and making him a vessel for an angel are one thing, but thinking that Sam would ever leave him to death for what Dean calls a normal life is completely something else.

"No, Dean."

"What?"

"You're not gonna die. Not tonight. And I'm not leaving you." Sam tightens his grip on Dean.

"Why?"

Sam bites his lip, holding himself back from shouting _'Because you're still my brother, no matter how many times I say that we're not supposed to be brothers, and I love you, no matter how hard I hate you, I still love you, moron'_ and sets Dean down on his bed instead.

"Because I'm gonna make you feel better, okay? And if you were dying, which is impossible since I will take care of you real good, as long as I still breathed, I would be sitting beside your deathbed. Now I'm gonna make you swallow food and pills down your throat, and I will feed you through them if I have to. Got it?"

Sam pushes Dean gently to lay on the memory foam mattress and wraps him with the maroon blanket. He would protest about all the mandhandling if he could just talk without making his throat hurt more.

"Sit tight. Let me just grab a few things." Sam pats his hands through the covers.

He returns to the room in no time holding a tray filled with a plate of bread, a glass of water and two pills beside it. Dean manages to eat one and a half slice of bread, thanks to Sam's patience facing all his whining and all the immature _'I'm so freaking full, you can shove the rest up your ass'_ -es. Soon, when he gets dizzier after finishing everything on the tray, he blames it on the pills.

"Ya could'a told me if ya want'd me drunk. I d'n do drugs, S'm." He mutters as he forces his eyelids not to shut. Though it's a visible fact that he isn't going to win. Eventually, he flutters his eyes closed and his breath evens out.

Sam may or may not have kissed his feverish forehead just the way Dean always did to him when he was a kid. Both ways, Dean doesn't have to know.


End file.
